


Counterweight

by sospes



Series: Leverage [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets have consequences, and misinformation can tear everything apart. There'll be blood before it's all over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to [Leverage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4807472), because I kept thinking about Illya's reaction and so this has spent the past month writing itself inside my head.

Edinburgh is bright and cold in the early morning, autumn leaves thick underfoot. There’s a pleasing bite in the air, enough to pink Illya’s cheeks but not enough for him to wrap a scarf around his neck, and he sits on a bench in Princes Street Gardens, book open on his lap, and watches the passersby. 

It’s been a long month, a month of chases through the Highlands, attempted drownings in lochs, and a final, gun-heavy confrontation on the Royal Mile at midnight. They got him, though, got Gordon Macpherson on terrorism, counter-espionage, and murder, and he’s currently being bundled away by U.N.C.L.E.’s ex-MI5 agents while the trio that actually caught him takes a moment to breathe. 

Illya sits in the cold, and breathes. Scotland in late November is nowhere close to Siberia in January, of course, but there’s something reassuringly familiar in the bite of the wind, the numbness of his fingers. It’s not home, but when the wind is blowing from the east, bringing a deep chill off the Russian Steppes, Illya can almost imagine it is.

“Illya Kuryakin?”

Illya looks up, hand still and flat on his thigh, ready to go for the gun inside his jacket in an instant. There’s a man standing in front of him, hands tucked in the pockets of his greatcoat, red scarf wrapped tight around his neck and tucked into his collar. He’s green-eyed and brown-haired, shorter than Illya but probably a hair taller than Napoleon, and his voice is thick with an American drawl. Illya has never met him before but a part of him already knows who he is. The wariness in the shoulders, the tell-tale bulge under the arm. He’s in the game, probably CIA, given the accent, and Illya says even though he knows the answer already, “Do I know you?”

“No,” the man answers. “No, you don’t.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and it’s leather-gloved and empty of a weapon. “David Mann. CIA.”

Illya knows that name. Where does he know that name from? – but, of course. It’s in the file, on the front page, listed under _SOURCES_. Agent David Mann, CIA, and Illya might have been practically asleep that night in New York but he remembers bits and pieces. One of the agents who caught Napoleon, all those years ago, but who then actually helped him, defended him against Sanders. Their contact in New York, but Illya doesn’t remember much after that because that was when he started crashing hard, the stress and adrenaline of the previous few days draining away and leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. He woke up twenty hours later to Gaby and Napoleon sitting in his suite, drinking coffee and eating room service lunch, and there was a lightness in Napoleon’s shoulders that Illya had never seen before. 

Illya reaches out, shakes Mann’s hand. “Agent Mann,” he says. “I am sorry I was not able to meet you in New York.” 

Mann waves the apology away, takes a seat on the bench next to Illya. “No need to apologise,” he says. “I understand that your team had just completed a tricky mission. I know that feeling.” A smile quirks his lips. “I’ve had a post-mission crash myself a time or two. There’s nothing much to be done about it but just let it happen.” 

“Quite,” Illya says, and closes the book in his lap. “Is there something I can help you with, Agent Mann?” Not that he’s not happy to sit and chat with a man who made Napoleon’s life significantly easier at the CIA because sometimes when he thinks about Sanders and all the rest bile rises in his throat and his vision starts to fuzz around the edges, but he guesses that there’s probably a reason a CIA agent who had vital intel on this mission has turned up just as the mission comes to an end. The world of espionage rarely has time for coincidences. 

“Yes, actually, there is,” Mann answers, a little wryly. His accent is thicker than Napoleon’s, deeper, more Southern, and he says, “I surveilled Macpherson for three years, and when I heard that your team had finally managed to catch the bastard—nice work in the Trossachs, by the way, I saw the aerial surveillance photos—well, I wanted to come ask for a debrief.” Something flickers across his face, something dark and indefinable. That’s okay, though, because Illya has plenty of dark and indefinable flickers himself “I spent three years of my life on that asshole,” Mann says, voice more heated, more angry, “and you guys caught him in a month. Impressive. Very impressive, but seeing as how I provided you with all that data on him, I have a goddamn investment in Macpherson and I figure I deserve to know how things went down.” 

Something isn’t adding up. Agents following up on cases they failed to close isn’t an unusual thing, no, Illya’s done it himself a handful of times, because the ones that get away itch at the back of your mind, itch and pull and scratch, but why has Mann come to him? Illya shifts on the bench. “Why have you come to me?” he asks. “You are CIA, you knew Solo. Why are you not talking to him about this?” 

A muscle jumps in Mann’s jaw. “Agent Solo,” he says, bitter and keen, “rejected my request for a debrief. Very rudely, actually. Told me that he’d moved on to better things, that he didn’t need to pander to the whims of some old guy he used to work with.” Mann shakes his head. “Ten years of standing up to that bastard Sanders, risking my own career for him, ten years of working together, of – _friendship_ —” That darkness flickers in his eyes again. “—and this is the thanks I get? Not exactly my idea of a good working relationship.” 

Illya frowns and tucks his hands in his pockets. Napoleon doesn’t like the CIA, that Illya knows and understands, because blackmailing someone into service isn’t exactly the best way to recruit effective agents – but Napoleon knows enough about the game to know that burning bridges like that is not a good idea, especially bridges that have helped you across troubled waters in the past. Espionage is about who you know and how well you know them as much as it is about guns and sneaking around darkened buildings at night, and so Napoleon just rejecting an old colleague out of hand is… disappointing. Dangerous, too, and Illya feels something start to burn in his chest, something protective and possessive. Getting on the wrong side of a high-level CIA operative is not a good idea. What was Napoleon thinking? 

“I will talk to him,” Illya says, voice thick. “He can be impulsive, illogical. I am sure this can be smoothed over.” 

Mann’s shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he says. “That’s not what I’m after here. If Solo wants to cut all ties, then so be it. I won’t feel guilty when he crashes and burns.” The voice is laden with bitterness, with anger, and it’s not unexpected but it is surprising. Allegiances shift and change, they always do, and while it’s not a good idea to cut them entirely it isn’t expected that they will always stay the same. Things change and there’s no point in getting angry about it – but, then again, Illya knows how he’d feel if Napoleon turned around and said no. It would kill him. Napoleon doesn’t like talking about his time under the CIA’s thumb, and he likes talking about the people he worked with even less. Illya’s never pushed because it never seemed relevant, but now? Now he’s wondering if he’s not the first agent to be caught by the exquisite wickedness of Napoleon Solo’s smile. 

Something sits unsteady in Illya’s gut. 

He stands abruptly, one hand in his pocket, the other curled tight around the spine of his paperback. “I will see that a copy of the report is forward to you at the CIA,” he says shortly, “and I will talk to Agent Solo.” 

Mann’s eyes flash in surprise. “Mr Kuryakin—”

“No,” Illya interrupts. “It is okay. I am sorry I cannot stay, but I have preparations to make.” He pauses, just briefly, and nods. “Good to meet you, Agent Mann. Enjoy the city.” 

Illya goes, stalking along Princes Street, pushing through the tourists and glowering at the creaking buses. His cap is pulled down low over his eyes, hiding his face from surveillance and hiding his anger from the crowds around him, and if his hands are shaking around the paperback’s pages, well, he’s had plenty of experience with that. 

David Mann sits back on the bench in Princes Street Gardens, folds his gloved hands across his stomach, and smiles a festering, victorious smile. 

It’s not the idea of Napoleon with someone else that’s the problem, no, Illya’s more than aware of the fact that his partner has a somewhat varied sexual past – and, if he’s honest with himself, a varied sexual present, because the need for a pretty face and a honeyed kiss doesn’t stop just because once he’s done with the mark Napoleon always comes back to Illya’s bed. That’s okay, that’s the job, and sex is sex is sex. What the problem is, though, is the idea that Napoleon could just turn his back on someone he cared for like that, because what happens when he’s had enough of Illya? When Illya gets old or slow or too scarred to hold Napoleon’s interest, does Napoleon just _leave_? 

It’s not far to the Balmoral, the hotel they’ve been staying in since they got back to Edinburgh after their sojourn in Aberdeen, but by the time Illya steps into the lobby his heart is racing in his chest. 

Napoleon’s room is on the third floor, with a view of Edinburgh Castle up on the hill. He lets Illya in with a distracted smile, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, hair wet from the shower and shaving foam still smeared across half his chin. “Give me a minute, Peril,” he says. “Bad timing.” He retreats to the bathroom, and Illya hears the tap start running. 

The room is practically scorching after the chill of Scottish autumn. Illya takes off his cap, keeps his jacket on, sits on the sofa and waits for the flood of water to stop. His head is pounding. He’s well aware of the fact that this is not the time for one of his explosive episodes, so he focuses on his breathing, keeps it slow, steady, doesn’t think about _needing_ to be calm just thinks about _being calm_. 

Napoleon emerges from the bathroom six minutes later, clean-shaven and hair slicked back. He’s still wearing nothing but the towel, but it’s nothing Illya hasn’t seen before. “Morning, Peril,” he says brightly. “You’re up early.” 

“Not really,” Illya answers. “It is ten o’clock.”

Napoleon shrugs. “It’s the morning after the end of the mission,” he says. “That warrants sleeping in – although it looks like you missed that memo.” He gives Illya a pointed once over. “You’ve been sitting on benches and reading Russian literature again, haven’t you? I thought we talked about this. No Dostoyevsky before lunch.” 

Despite the thudding in his head, Illya feels his lips quirk into a smile. “Just because you cannot handle good literature does not mean that I should have to go without.”

Napoleon catches Illya’s gaze, holds it, and then purposefully drops his towel. “I thought we were partners, Peril,” he says, mock-plaintively and completely naked. “I thought we shared _everything_.” 

Illya’s fighting the urge to throw his book at him. The only reason he doesn’t is because Tolstoy deserves better, and he says, “Put some clothes on, Cowboy. Gaby will not be happy if she comes by.” 

“I haven’t seen Gaby since we handed Macpherson over to Thompson yesterday,” Napoleon says, now propping his hands on his hips and still not getting dressed. “She’s out enjoying the city, I think. Probably found herself a nice Scottish boy to show her around. She’s not coming here.” 

Illya gives him a sharp look. “Get dressed.”

Napoleon’s lips quirk upwards in a sly smile. “So boring,” he says, but goes to the chest of drawers nonetheless.

Illya watches Napoleon dress for a moment, studying the patchwork of scars across his back, the play of the muscles in his arms. He’s spent hours tracing those scars in the dark hours of the night, gripped those muscles so tight and heard Napoleon laugh a breathy, desperate laugh in return, and now all he can think about is _not_ touching those scars, _not_ feeling the strength of those muscles. He’s never been insecure, no, not really, but now he’s wondering whether Napoleon thinks about leaving him behind. 

It never occurs to him that maybe that’s exactly what Mann wanted him to think.

“Peril?” Napoleon’s looking at him a little strangely, mostly dressed but still with his shirt undone. He’s finishing off the buttons as he watches Illya, and he says, “Peril, you okay? Looking oddly thoughtful there.” 

Illya’s never really been one for keeping secrets. “I met an old colleague of yours from the CIA,” he says. 

Napoleon’s forehead furrows, and he flips up his collar, loops a pinstriped green tie around his neck. It’s the same colour as Mann’s eyes, Illya absently reflects, and Napoleon says, “You did? In Edinburgh? Seems unlikely.” 

“He came to ask for an update on the Macpherson mission,” Illya says. “Said that he was the agent who supplied us with our intel, that he was interested in hearing how the mission played out, in the end, how we caught him, but that you would not co-operate. That you… rejected him.” 

Napoleon has gone very, very still. His tie is a perfect double Windsor, his shirt collar is smoothed down, his hair slicked into its usual perfection, and he stands stock still, socked feet motionless on the carpet. “The agent who supplied our intel,” he repeats. “Did he give you a name?”

Illya knows that stillness. It’s tension and fear and _I don’t want to talk about this, Peril, will you just give it a rest?_ “Mann,” he says, and studies Napoleon’s expression. “David Mann.” 

Napoleon’s face shuts down. He’s blank, expressionless. “What did he tell you?” 

There’s nothing Illya can deal with less now than Napoleon’s evasiveness, his uncanny ability to duck out from under the question and escape every single consequence the world can throw at him. Illya doesn’t want to be left behind. “Enough,” he says. “That he helped you, and that you threw that help back in his face.” 

Something stutters in Napoleon’s eyes, and just for a second he looks almost _lost_. “What?” he manages. 

Illya can feel his heart beating faster again. “You cannot just burn bridges on a whim,” he says. “Sometimes you have to give as well as take. It is not all about you, Napoleon.” 

Napoleon doesn’t look lost anymore. Now, his lips are twisted in confusion and something that might almost be pain. “Illya,” he says, and Illya’s name is almost like a plea. “Illya, I don’t understand. Why are you saying this? I didn’t want you to know about Mann, but I never thought this would be how you’d react.” 

Illya’s jaw is tight. “How else am I supposed to react?” he asks, short and sharp and pointed.

Napoleon’s expression is shifting faster than quicksilver, confusion to hurt to fear to _anger_. He takes a step towards Illya, fists balled at his sides, and Illya feels himself tense in response. They both know that he’d win in a fistfight, but that doesn’t mean that Napoleon isn’t about to try. “Damn good partner you are,” Napoleon says, bitter and furious, “if you find out what that man did and this is your response. Damnit, Peril, he—”

The phone rings. 

Napoleon’s chest is heaving. He’s looking at Illya like he wants to hit him and like he wants to run, all at once, and without another word he turns on his heel, stalks to the phone. His fingers are white-knuckled around the handset, and he picks it up, says, tight and tense, “Yes?”

Illya can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line. Even if he could, he’d be too tense to listen.

Napoleon frowns. “Speaking,” he says. He listens a moment longer, expression still delineated in confusion, but then his eyes change, his lips shift. He glances to Illya, face suddenly worried, and he says, “What’s her condition?” 

Illya’s on his feet in a second. “Gaby?” he says, low and quiet.

Napoleon doesn’t answer, just gives him a sharp nod. “I understand,” he says into the phone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for calling.” He listens a moment longer, then nods, puts the phone down, and turns to Illya. His lips are set in a hard line. “Gaby’s in some village hospital a couple of hours drive outside Edinburgh,” he says, short and to the point. “They found her early this morning, lying half-in the sea, beaten and unconscious.”

Illya’s heart thuds loud in his chest. “ _What?_ ” he spits. 

Napoleon’s eyes are dark. “She’s okay,” he says. “Conscious just long enough to give the doctors my name and the name of the hotel.”

Illya picks up his cap, rams it onto his head. “We go now.”

A muscle jumps in Napoleon’s jaw. “No,” he says flatly. “No, Peril, _I’m_ going. You’re staying here.”

A cold hand closes around Illya’s heart, and he says, “If you think I am waiting around in a hotel while Gaby is—”

Napoleon’s shaking his head. “Someone must have taken her,” he says. “Ending up beaten and hours away from the city isn’t exactly the result of a bad night out. That means someone took her, someone _good_ , so I’m guessing that the Macpherson mission might be as over as we thought it was.” He’s quiet a moment, holding Illya’s gaze, and he’s as bright and intense as he ever is when they’re in the middle of a firefight. “Stay here,” he says. “Track her last movements, you’re better at that than I am. She said she was going to some bar the concierge recommended: start there. I’ll drive out and bring her back. Hopefully we’ll be back inside of four hours, then we can regroup, figure out what’s going on. Find whoever took her and put a bullet between his eyes. Okay?”

Illya’s not sure he wants to be left behind right about now, but there’s an intensity in Napoleon’s eyes that he can’t argue with. “Okay,” he says finally. “I will be back at the hotel in four hours. If I find lead, I will leave a message at reception.”

“Good,” Napoleon says. His jaw is tight, his fists are still clenched, and he’s staring at Illya like Illya just shot him through the heart. 

Illya doesn’t understand what’s going on. The mission was supposed to be over, they were supposed to rest and relax and maybe even get some time off before U.N.C.L.E.’s next task, he spent last night in Napoleon’s bed in a frenzy of relief and exhilaration and everything was _perfect_ – and now Gaby’s hurt and Napoleon’s looking at him with eyes that are so angry and so _empty_. Illya doesn’t understand, but he thinks about Mann and about Napoleon’s capriciousness, about his fleeting touch and his silvered laugh, and he starts, “Napoleon—” 

“Don’t,” Napoleon snaps. “I don’t think I can be in the same room as you right now.” His teeth are gritted. “I’ll see you when I get back.” 

Napoleon goes. Illya doesn’t stop him.

Illya stays in Napoleon’s room for a long moment, staring at the still-damp towel hung over the back of the desk chair. After a while, he moves, heads downstairs to Gaby’s room, picks the lock because Gaby’s always assiduous about locking her door after that incident in Mumbai, and slips inside without being noticed. He puts the swirl of confusion and the memory of the hurt in Napoleon’s eyes to the back of his mind, focuses on the task at hand, because they can work on fixing whatever’s gone wrong between them when Gaby’s back and safe and they’re out of this city none the worse for wear. 

Gaby’s room is halfway between Illya’s pernickety precision and Napoleon’s organised chaos, camel coat hung neatly from the back of the door, shoes stacked messily next to the cupboard, window left open with the curtains billowing. Her bed is made, but it’s the eerie precision of a bed made by housekeeping. It’s not been slept in, so she never made it back here after the bar. That’s data. That’s data he can use. Illya prowls around the room, noting what’s missing—handbag, flat gold pumps, gun: out for the night, wary but not expecting trouble—and what’s not—scarf, gloves, knife: not expecting to be gone long, not armed for combat—and then stands against one wall, shoulders leant against the wallpaper, thinking. 

He frowns. The window’s open. It was bitterly cold last night, dipping below zero, so why would Gaby leave the window open? 

Because _she_ didn’t open it. 

The answer hits him at the same time as the dart that burrows into the side of his neck. 

Illya slaps his hand to the stinging pain and yanks the needled dart out, throws it to the floor and stamps it into the carpet, but he can already tell it’s too late. There’s a leadenness starting in his limbs, a fuzziness crowding around his vision, and he grabs at the wall, slides down to the ground before he falls and breaks something. His breathing is getting faster even as darkness eats at his brain, and he blinks, tries to focus, whines into the suddenly so very thick hotel air. 

Illya passes out, and the last word on his lips is _Napoleon_.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon spends the drive with his hands wrapped so tight around the steering wheel that he’s half-afraid he’s going to rip the leather. That doesn’t stop him, of course, and he tears through the beautiful bleakness of the Scottish countryside at almost double the speed limit, overtaking any other car that dares get in his way and generally ignoring that there are rules of the road at all. 

Illya knows. Illya knows and Illya _doesn’t care_. 

Napoleon grits his teeth and takes a particularly sharp bend at seventy miles an hour. He’s probably going to end up in a ditch long before he makes it to Gaby, but he’s finding it hard to care because in all the times he’s wondered what it would be like to tell Illya, to tell him the filthy, awful secret that Gaby only found out because she’s so goddamn _nosy_ , he never dreamed that the response would be _Sometimes you have to give as well as take_. He’s given so much, too much, and he never has to give it again thanks to Gaby and her inability to leave well alone—

But Illya.

Napoleon bites his lip so hard he almost breaks the skin, and refocuses on the road. No. Now’s not the time for this, because it’s looking like Gordon Macpherson has either slipped U.N.C.L.E.’s grip already or he’s got an accomplice, which is definitely not a good thing because there are still at least three stashes of military-grade equipment that they didn’t manage to discover. No, he can deal with Illya later. Now, he has to focus on Gaby. 

The fishing village the doctor directed him to is probably about the same size as Napoleon’s flat in London. Every building is pebbledashed, every road is narrow and winding, and Napoleon’s sleek Porsche gets funny looks from the grizzled Scots as he drives along the seafront. He certainly feels out of place, but then again he’s really not bothered about that right now because there are more important things at stake than his personal discomfort. 

_It is not all about you, Napoleon._

Napoleon’s fingernails spasm deep into the leather steering wheel. 

He finds the hospital after five minutes of trying not to scrape the Porsche’s paintwork against the pebbledash, and when he does he leaves the car badly parked on the side of a narrow street and ducks inside. It’s quiet, only an ill-looking pensioner in the waiting room, and Napoleon goes to the reception desk, smiles as much of a smile as he can manage right now and says, “My name is Napoleon Solo. I got a call that my friend is here.”

The receptionist is a young man with bright eyes and russet hair, and he nods up at Napoleon, says in a Scots brogue so thick it’s almost difficult to understand, “Aye, she is. Take a seat, and I’ll call the doctor.” He picks up the phone without time for Napoleon to stress the urgency of all this, so Napoleon goes and sits opposite the pensioner, clasps his hands together and tries not to laugh at the oddity of it all. 

He’s only there for a few minutes before the door next to the receptionist’s desk opens and a tall, blond man with a stethoscope slung around his neck comes striding out. His beard is neatly trimmed, his hands broad and clean, and he says, “Mr Solo? Come with me.”

Napoleon doesn’t need to be asked twice. 

Gaby is laid out in one of the only two beds this place seems to have, the whiteness of the hospital pyjamas bright against the bruise blossomed around her right eye. She’s awake and, judging by the restraints around her wrists, apparently kicking, and the moment she sees Napoleon she surges up, says, “Solo! Make them let me go! I’m _fine_.” 

The doctor who brought Napoleon back to the room clicks his tongue against his teeth, says, “No, lassie, you’re not. You’re a mess, and I’m fairly sure there are several cracked ribs under that shirt. You need to be on bedrest for at least a few days—”

“ _Napoleon_ ,” Gaby hisses. Her eyes are bright, fever-bright, and, oh, something sparks in his heart. That’s fear. She’s afraid. “Napoleon, we have to—” She stops dead, frowns at Napoleon, at the closed door behind him, and says, “Where’s Illya?”

_How else am I supposed to react?_

“Back in Edinburgh,” Napoleon says, and comes to stand next to Gaby’s bed. “He’s figuring out whoever did this.”

Gaby’s shaking her head. “We have to go,” she says. “We have to go _now_.” 

Napoleon doesn’t understand, but he thinks he will do. He takes Gaby’s hand, still pinned down by the restraints, then glances back at the doctor, says, “Give us a minute?” 

The doctor looks between them, suspicion clear in his eyes, but after a moment he relents. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” He goes. 

Napoleon turns back to Gaby and starts unbuckling the cuff around her wrist. “Just don’t move too quickly,” he says by way of warning, and then: “Gaby, what happened? I thought you were going to pick up some kid, not get into a _fight_.” 

Gaby’s not laughing. She shakes her wrist free from the cuff, reaches across to undo the other as Napoleon moves to the straps around her ankles. “He followed us to Edinburgh,” she says flatly. “He’s been here for weeks, watching us, waiting for an opportunity.” She shakes her head. “ _Bastard_.” 

Napoleon frowns. “Macpherson?” he asks, because, well, they know that already. Macpherson’s caught, though, so why Gaby’s quite so worked up about information they’ve known for days he doesn’t really—

“No,” Gaby says, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. She winces at the sudden motion, hisses and presses her hand to her ribs, doesn’t try to move any further. “No,” she says again, tighter, and looks up at Napoleon. “Not Macpherson. _Mann_.” 

Napoleon blinks. He’d hoped to never hear that name again, and now he’s hearing it twice in the same day. “David Mann?”

Gaby nods, and her jaw is set. “Yes,” she says. “He took me. Knocked me out with some drugged dart, dragged me into a car in the city last night, and I woke up next to the sea in the middle of the night.” She feels at her face, at the new crook to her nose and the scratches scraped down one cheek. “Beat me, held me under the water. Didn’t say a word about what he wanted for a good two hours.”

“Just him?” Napoleon says, because he can focus on specifics, he can focus on specific details so he doesn’t have to think about Mann with his hands around Gaby’s throat. 

“Just him,” Gaby confirms. “He drugged me, I think. I could feel everything but could barely move.” She takes a breath, grips her fingers tight around the edge of the bed. “He’s angry,” she says. “So angry. The CIA didn’t just fire him, they _burned_ him. All his aliases, all his contacts, his funds. Gone, everything wiped. He lost everything because of what Waverly did—” Napoleon forces himself not to flinch. “—and now he’s come to take it out on us. Not that he said as much,” Gaby clarifies, “but it was pretty clear from the way he beat me around. He could have killed me, Napoleon,” she says, quieter. “He could have _easily_ killed me, but he didn’t. Just beat me, nearly drowned me, then left me lying in the water at high tide until one of the fishermen found me.” She looks up at Napoleon again, and her eyes are bright against the purpling bruises. “He knows everything about the Macpherson mission,” she says. “I think he’s been following us since we started here. He was _there_ in the Trossachs!” A pause, rich and pregnant. “He knows – a lot.” 

Napoleon knows that Gaby’s holding something back when he hears it. “Gaby,” he says. 

Gaby meets his gaze head-on. “He knows about you and Illya,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how, but he does. And, as you can imagine, he’s not best pleased.” 

And everything just falls into place. 

Napoleon sucks in a sharp breath, forces himself not to grab at the hospital bed for balance. “Shit,” he says. “ _Shit_.”

Gaby’s hand is on his chest, small and warm and something to focus on. “Napoleon?” she says, sharp as a tack. “What are you thinking? Talk to me.” 

Napoleon forces himself to breathe. “Illya came to my room this morning,” he says, and there’s a part of him that’s relieved and another part that’s so goddamn terrified. “He was acting strange, even stranger than usual, and when I pressed him on it he said that he’d met ‘a colleague’ of mine this morning.”

Gaby’s lips thin. “Mann.”

“Mann,” Napoleon confirms. He feels his heart twist in his chest, but it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, and he says, “He said that Mann had told him things. I assumed that he meant about – what he made me do, but now I’m thinking not so much.” He pauses, and Gaby doesn’t interrupt, just waits. Her hand is warm against his chest. “Illya was saying things,” Napoleon says finally. “About what I did, about how I dealt with the situation. _Blaming_ me.” 

Gaby’s hand tightens in his shirt. “Illya would _never_ blame you for this,” she says, short and emphatic. “ _Never_. You know that, Napoleon.” 

Napoleon’s lips curl. “A lot harder to think that when it’s staring you in the face,” he says, half-bitter, and then grits his teeth, shakes his head in anger. “Something wasn’t right,” he says. “I _knew_ something wasn’t right, but the moment I heard that bastard’s name I just—”

“Napoleon,” Gaby says, and her hand curls around his, warm and safe. 

Napoleon takes a breath, forces himself not to think about the years and years he spent with those hands on his skin. “Mann’s good,” he says finally. “Very good. A chess player, always thinking three moves ahead.” Illya, crouched thoughtfully over a chessboard until Napoleon swaggers up and pulls him away to bed. Napoleon thinks about that instead of Mann’s hand in his hair, and he says, “Which means that he’s planned all of this, anticipated all of our reactions. You said he’s been watching us, so he knows exactly what we’d do.”

Realisation dawns in Gaby’s eyes. “Illya.” 

Napoleon’s hands have balled into fists. He’s not sure when that happened. “Illya,” he confirms, quiet and tight. “Mann played him from the start so that we’d argue, so that I’d – abandon him when the call came in about you.” _Abandon._ The word sticks in Napoleon’s throat, but there’s something lighter in his heart, now, because Mann has always played the game so well and this is just another game, just another match that Napoleon can win. Illya doesn’t know. Illya doesn’t know that Napoleon is nothing but a whore. 

Gaby’s face is drawn. “He has Illya,” she says, and it’s not a question. 

Napoleon nods. “He has Illya,” he says. “And we’re a two hour drive away.” 

Gaby scoffs. “Two hours? I can do it in ninety minutes, I guarantee it.” Napoleon raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs. “You drive like an American. Slow, gassy. Inefficient.” She gestures impatiently at the door. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes,” Napoleon answers, determination set deep in his heart. “But first, you need some clothes.” 

 

There’s something warm and soft under Illya’s cheek, and just for a second everything’s fine, everything’s okay, the mission’s done and he’s waking up to warm sheets and a warmer body next to him, to Napoleon’s smile and Napoleon’s—

_Napoleon._

Illya opens his eyes and finds himself facedown on a thick, cream carpet. Everything comes flooding back in an instant—Mann, Napoleon, the bite of pain in the side of his neck—and his heart starts to race but he forces himself to keep calm, to not panic. He can feel cold metal around his wrists and his jacket’s stripped away, jacket and belt and shoes just gone, and he’s facedown on a thick, cream carpet, hands cuffed behind his back, with no idea who’s taken him. 

And he can’t move. 

_That_ floods panic through his heart. He tries to twitch his fingers, to flex his hands into fists, to rear up and find out why the hell he’s pitched face-first into the carpet but he _can’t_. He has no control over his limbs, over his _body_ , and he feels his breathing hitch faster, faster. Paralyzed. He’s paralyzed. 

“Oh, stop panicking.” 

The voice is American, thick with drawl and accent. It’s behind Illya, above him, and before he’s had time to fully process what that means there’s a hand on his shoulder and he’s being rolled over onto his back, limp as a fish and about as impressive. The room is a hotel room, familiarly bland décor, and Illya can see a landscape hung on one wall and a clock mounted on the other, a familiar clock, brown oak and gilt edging. The same clock that hung in his room in the Balmoral – _oh_ , but this isn’t his room. The mess on the dresser, the suit jacket hung over the back of the desk chair. This is _Napoleon’s_ room. 

And then there’s brown hair, bright green eyes. David Mann, the man who met him on a bench in Princes Street Gardens and told him—

Illya’s beginning to think that he should have never listened. 

“Morning, Kuryakin,” Mann says, faux-brightly. “Nice to see you again. You’ve been out a good few hours, now – I was starting to worry that you’d never wake up.”

Illya makes a strangled noise in his throat, half growl, half thunderous rumble, but that’s good because that at least means that he can make _some_ noise. He bares his teeth, tries for speech. “What do you want?” It comes out hoarse and raspy, but it comes out and that’s something. If he can talk, he can defend himself. He _can_. 

Mann doesn’t answer, just kicks Illya’s unresponsive body a little more so he’s laid out flat on his back, hands uncomfortably trapped beneath his body. Illya can feel the keen edge of the cuffs biting into his skin, and he grits his teeth, ignores the pain. Mann crouches down next to him, after a moment, reaches out, runs a thumb across his lips, grabs a handful of his hair and _pulls_. “I understand what he sees in you,” he says, after a moment. “I mean, the Aryan Commie thing doesn’t really work for me, but I can understand why he’d want to get you in his bed.” 

Illya doesn’t reply to that. He’s not going to. 

Mann slaps his cheek, tuts. “Don’t be like that,” he chides. “I just want to have a little conversation.” 

“Then why did you drug me?” Illya bites.

“Fair question,” Mann concedes. “I figured that you might get a bit smash-happy if I didn’t. I saw what you did to that car in Glasgow. Didn’t particularly fancy ending up on the trash heap, too. So I whipped you up a cocktail, some muscle relaxants, some sedatives. A dash of paralytic here and there. Enough to keep you laid out there, not enough that you can’t talk. Tested it out on your lady friend last night, seemed to work a treat, though I had to up the dosage for you, of course.” 

Illya’s nostrils flare. _Gaby_. But if Mann was the one who took Gaby, that means—

“So,” Mann says. “ _Illya_. Let’s talk about Napoleon.” 

A muscle pulses in Illya’s jaw. He thinks about the park bench, about autumn leaves around his ankles, and then about the hurt in Napoleon’s eyes. He’s been played, he knows he has, but he also knows that there’s something he _doesn’t_ know. Something Napoleon’s been keeping from him, and he says, “Is anything you told me true?” 

“All of it, actually,” Mann says, and grins. “Maybe I left some things out, skimmed over some others. I did help him, and he did reject me. All the jilted lover implications I put in there? Yeah, they’re relevant, too. The boy’s good on his knees, and his ass, oh yeah.” Illya’s heart thuds loud in his chest. There’s a callousness to Mann’s voice, a coldness that Illya can’t stand, and the image is in his head, now, Napoleon on his knees, eyes wide and blue, a hand in his hair, pulling, _ripping_. “But,” Mann says, “as I think you’re probably figuring out now, I might have glossed over the circumstances of our separation a little. And the circumstances of our… liaisons, too. There may have been a bit of coercion involved there – but, hell, who could blame me? Have you _seen_ him?” He bares his teeth in a grin. “I guessed that I’d probably have ended up smeared across Scotland if I told you the whole truth, so it had to be… edited.” 

Sex and power. Illya’s not stupid. “I will kill you.”

“What, flat on your back with no control over your body?” Mann scoffs. “I’d genuinely like to see you try. If anyone could, I reckon it would be you. But no. That dosage has been tailored specifically for you, and I don’t know if Napoleon told you, but I’m a damn good chemist. By the time it wears off, you’ll be dead.” 

“Death threats?” Illya spits. “Very original. I’m not scared.”

“You should be,” Mann says, and his voice is still, calm. His eyes are ice, and he reaches inside his jacket, draws his gun. A silencer follows, and as he screws it to the barrel, he says, “See, I came for a visit in New York. Reminded Napoleon of his loyalties, of his obligations. Of what he has to give me so that I keep him safe. And he repaid me for all my help by destroying my career. Everything I have, gone. Friends, colleagues. My home is now a goddamn _safehouse_.” 

“I,” Illya growls, “am so _sorry_.”

“Very funny,” Mann drawls, eyes glinting with anger. “You’re a funny man, Kuryakin. I like you.” He pauses, thinks. “What is it he calls you? Peril. Peril and Cowboy. So sweet. Can I call you Peril?” 

Illya doesn’t dignify that with a respond.

“Guessed not,” Mann says, but he doesn’t seem particularly disappointed. “So, back to the point. Your partner took everything from me. I’m going to do the same to him, and at first I thought that might be the girl, Teller. I had a chance to take her _weeks_ ago, but, well, Macpherson is an asshole and I wanted to see the guy who wasted three years of my life brought down. So I waited, and I’m glad he did – because it’s not the girl. It’s you. The way he looks at you, the way he _touches_ you.” Mann shakes his head. “It was obvious even _before_ I saw that little tryst of yours at Loch Lomond.” 

Illya grits his teeth. Napoleon got shot at Loch Lomond, and it was only a graze, just another gash across his bicep in the end, but Illya saw and the bottom just dropped out of his stomach. He put a bullet between the shooter’s eyes, finished what they needed to do, and then he went and took Napoleon’s hand, pushed him into a bedroom in the house they’d colonised for the night, and felt for himself that Napoleon was still alive, still here, still _with him_. 

Mann’s eyes are gleaming. “That,” he says, “was when I realised this wasn’t just the two of you letting off steam between missions.” He gestures with the silenced pistol. “You love him. More importantly, _he_ loves _you_.” He tuts again, barely audible above the racing of Illya’s heart. _Love?_ “Dangerous thing, love. It can do all kinds of things to your head. I’m hoping it’ll do all kinds of things to his. Which is why—” He gestures around them, at the Balmoral’s walls and Napoleon’s clothes. “—we’re here. Your partners will be back in the city very soon. They’ll’ve figured it out pretty quickly: our boy is smart, and your girl is pretty damn impressive, I’ll give her that. They’ll come here to regroup, to trace your last movements because this is the last place either of them saw you, and the moment Napoleon Solo comes through that door—” He points with the barrel of the gun. “—I’m going to put a bullet through your brain. So the net result of all of this will be that bastard Macpherson behind bars, your partner Gaby with bruises marring that pretty face of hers, you dead, and Solo left in exactly the position he’s left me in.” He pauses, thinks. “I don’t know, maybe I should fuck the girl,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe on your dead body, while he watches? That has a certain poetry to it, I think.” 

Illya growls. There’s nothing else he can do, because he’s trying to strain, trying to fight, but his body is _not listening_. There’s nothing he can do. 

Mann laughs, runs his hand through Illya’s hair, grabs and pulls. “Don’t worry,” he says, sickeningly cheerful. “You’ll be dead, so you won’t have to see her cry.” 

“I will kill you,” Illya spits. “I will _kill you!_ ” 

Mann leans down, kisses him, hard and bitter, and he bites Illya’s lower lip hard enough that Illya tastes blood. When he pulls away, Illya’s blood stains his lips, and he says, “No, Peril. No, _I’m_ going to kill _you_.” 

Everything happens very quickly after that. 

The window shatters, glass pouring into the cream, cream carpet, letting in the bitter Scottish cold. It’s broken by a high-velocity bullet, a bullet from a sniper rifle, and that bullet smashes into Mann’s shoulder, knocks him off balance, sends him spinning away from Illya, crashing to the carpet. He keeps his grip on his gun even as he shouts out in pain, though, and, well, Illya’s never wanted to be able to just _move_ more in his life. He grunts, strains as much as he can, and he thinks he might be starting to feel some movement – but Mann’s getting back to his feet, slinking back against the wall, out of the line of the window, and there’s a snarl on his lips, furious and animalistic. 

The door crashes open, slams back against the wall, and Napoleon is _here_ , gun in hand. He comes in shooting, and Illya’s abruptly glad that he’s flat on the floor because the air is hot with cordite. Bullets spray across the back wall, peppering the wallpaper with holes, and Illya sees Mann take another to the side, another to the thigh, nothing fatal, just flesh wounds, all of them, and he thuds to his knees with a yell – but his gun is still in his hand. 

Mann fires off a single shot. 

Crimson blooms in the white of Napoleon’s shirt, right above his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Mann’s out the door in seconds. He’s limping from the gunshot to his thigh but neither Illya nor Napoleon are in any position to stop him. He runs. He gets away. 

Napoleon crashes to the carpet, gun slack in one hand, the other pressed over the ragged hole in his shirt, in his _flesh_. His mouth is open, blood already drooling from one corner of his lips, and he falls forward, props himself up on one arm, drops the gun and coughs. Crimson spatters the cream carpet, and he looks up at Illya, eyes wide and bright. 

Illya is _useless_. 

Napoleon’s lips quirk in a frantic shadow of a smile. He’s still staring at Illya, still watching him with eyes that are so blue against the red of the blood that stains his teeth, and there’s something in those eyes, something pleading and needy. He’s calling for help with all the words he can’t speak, but there’s nothing Illya can do because his limbs are still locked by the drugs and his tongue is frozen in fear. He can’t. 

The skin around Napoleon’s eyes crinkles, softens, and he slumps face-forward into the carpet. He doesn’t move. 

“ _No._ ” Illya’s tongue finds itself, and he says, “Cowboy, no, look at me, Cowboy, _please_.”

Nothing. 

Rage eats at the edges of Illya’s vision. He strains against the torpor of his own body, shoves his head back into the carpet, tries and tries to move everything, anything, but the most he can manage is a twitch in his fingers. It’s something. It’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough, _not enough_. 

A red stain is spreading through the cream carpet. 

“Cowboy,” Illya husks, and then, “ _Napoleon_.” 

Nothing. 

It takes Gaby four minutes to find them, and by that time Illya has managed to successfully twitch all of one hand. She comes crashing through the door in an ill-fitting outfit of Napoleon’s spare jumper, hospital-issue scrub trousers, and a pair of combat boots, with a case that looks suspiciously like Illya’s sniper rifle over her shoulder, and the moment she sees the tableau laid out in front of her all the blood drains from her face. “Illya,” she rasps, and then, “God, _Napoleon!_ ” She crashes to the floor next to him, rifle case falling forward over her shoulders, one hand going to her ribs as a spasm of pain floods her face. She reaches for Napoleon’s neck, feels for a heartbeat. She looks up at Illya, lips strained. “I’ve got a pulse.” 

“Call an ambulance,” Illya snaps. 

Gaby doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Illya doesn’t know how long it takes for the ambulance to get to them. He’s not paying attention, no, he just lets Gaby get on with it, lets her bark down the phone and then return to Napoleon’s side, press her fingers back to the pulse point in his neck. Illya doesn’t pay attention to any of that, because he can’t stop looking at the blood seeping into the carpet, spreading wider and wide, a halo of blood around Napoleon’s dark hair. Napoleon’s face is turned away from him, and his arms are bent and awkward under his body. His gun lies forgotten and discarded, and Illya just watches, motionless and helpless. 

Mann. Mann did this. Mann did _all_ of this, and now he’s nowhere to be found. 

When the paramedics arrive, three of them crouch over Napoleon immediately, obscuring him from Illya’s line of vision. A fourth, a tall woman with white gloves stretched over her short fingers, comes to Illya, checks his pulse and asks in a Scottish burr, “Do you know what he gave you?” Illya tells her what he knows—which is precisely nothing, and he knows that—and she nods, writes something down in a notebook, says, “This should wear off soon. We’ll take you to the hospital with us, hook you up to something that should flush your system a little quicker. You okay for now, sir?”

Illya grits his teeth, says, “Just help him.”

The woman nods, and goes.

Gaby stays at Illya’s side when the stretchers arrive, rests her hand on his shoulder and follows him through the Balmoral’s corridors. He blinks up at her, frowns, says, “No, Gaby, stay with Napoleon.”

She shakes her head, says, “Can’t. They made me leave him.” Her lips fade as they tighten, and she squeezes his shoulder. “He’s alive,” she says, like she’s reassuring herself. “He’s still alive, Illya. They think they can save him.” 

Illya doesn’t answer, but he knows in his bones that if it weren’t for him, Napoleon wouldn’t need saving in the first place. 

Edinburgh Royal Infirmary is busy for a Thursday afternoon, and Illya loses sight of Napoleon in less than a minute. It doesn’t surprise him because Napoleon is headed to surgery and Illya’s just being wheeled to a private, non-emergency room, but it clenches in his heart, in his stomach. He should have known that a stranger approaching him on a park bench in the middle of Edinburgh wasn’t a good sign, but he let himself be played, let his emotions get the best of him like they always do, and now here they are, all three of them, Gaby beaten, Illya drugged, Napoleon _shot_ , and they’re so close to the edge.

The doctors hook him up to an IV bag full of what Illya’s assuming are magical, anti-drug chemicals, and they leave him with a warning to not push himself too hard in case of unforeseen consequences. Illya thinks that there have already been more than enough unforeseen consequences to this whole messy business but he doesn’t say that, just lies back and watches the ceiling, focuses on trying to move his arms. He’s got all the way to flexing his biceps when Gaby arrives, slipping through the door with her arm in a sling and a compression bandage wrapped tight around her ribs. She gives him a tired smile, says, “How are you feeling?”

Illya raises his arm, flexes his hand into a fist and says, “Getting there. Napoleon?”

Gaby’s eyes flicker dark. “He’s in surgery,” she says, and takes a seat next to Illya’s bed. “The shot went in at an angle, so it missed his heart but punctured his lung.” A cold hand settles around Illya’s gut. “The doctors say he’s got a good chance,” Gaby says, reaches out, takes Illya’s hand. “He’s strong, you know that. He’s a fighter.”

“Yes,” Illya says thickly, and he thinks about Mann, about the gun in his hand and the blaze in his eyes, about _the boy’s good on his knees_ and _who could blame me?_ He licks his lips, squeezes his hand tight around Gaby’s, and says, as clear and bald and open as he can manage, “Mann hurt Napoleon.” 

A shadow passes over Gaby’s face. “Yes,” she says after a moment. “Yes, he did.”

“Tell me.”

“Illya…”

“ _Tell me_ ,” Illya says, harder, and he feels a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I did not know that Mann was a danger to us, and so he manipulated me, made me – say things to Cowboy. Things I would never say.” He pauses, watches Gaby’s dark eyes, says, softer, “I need to know.” 

“Okay,” Gaby says after a moment. “Okay, Illya, okay. Just – don’t freak out?” 

Illya casts a pointed glance down at himself, at the arms that he can just about move, at the motionless rest of him. “Yes,” he says dryly. “I think that won’t be an issue.”

Gaby squeezes his hand again. “They had an – arrangement,” she says quietly. “Back when Napoleon worked with the CIA. Mann would protect him from his superiors, and in exchange Napoleon let him… do things to him.” Gaby’s lips twist. “Whatever he wanted,” she says. “For ten years.”

Every muscle in Illya’s body is strung so tight he thinks he might snap. “Ten years,” he says through gritted teeth. “ _Ten years_.” Gaby reaches up, smoothes her hand through his hair. She doesn’t speak, and for a moment Illya just focuses on the touch of her hand and the rhythm of his breathing. In and out, in and out. The rage ebbs, after a moment, and he shoves aside the image of Napoleon on his knees, looks at Gaby, says, “You knew.” 

Her cheeks flush. It’s shame and guilt, Illya knows, and she says, “I eavesdropped when he rendezvoused with us in New York, heard Mann trying to blackmail Napoleon again. Threatened to get the CIA to revoke his deal with U.N.C.L.E.”

“He would not want that,” Illya says, tongue thick in his mouth.

“No,” Gaby says, soft and gentle. “No, he didn’t, and he was willing to do pretty much anything to ensure that we didn’t lose him.” Illya’s stomach clenches. “I made sure he didn’t have to,” Gaby says, harder. “Got Waverly to burn Mann.”

“Waverly knows?”

Guilt flickers in Gaby’s eyes. “Yes,” she says. “I had to tell him. He was the only one with the leverage to get the CIA to scrap one of their top agents.” 

“Waverly,” Illya repeats flatly. “You told Waverly, and you kept this from me.”

Gaby looks away, but she doesn’t let go of his hand. “It was done,” she says quietly. “It was done, it was over, and Mann was out of our lives. None of this was supposed to happen, and we didn’t want to cause you more pain.” She pauses, maybe expecting Illya to respond, but he doesn’t answer. He knows what she means, what they were afraid of, and even as his muscles are trembling with a rage he can’t quite get under control Gaby says, quiet and subdued, “After what happened with your mother, Illya, neither of us wanted you to have to deal with the knowledge that the same thing happened to Napoleon.” 

“Not your decision,” Illya manages.

“No,” Gaby says. “No, actually it was Napoleon’s.” She shakes her head, lifts Illya’s hand in hers, presses a kiss to his knuckles. “He was terrified,” she says softly, and it’s like she’s confessing a secret she’s kept her whole life. “He never said as much, but it was there in his eyes. Don’t ask me what he was so afraid of—you know I don’t like to get inside his crazy American head—but I couldn’t break that trust.”

Hurt spirals up behind Illya’s eyes. “He did not want me to know,” he says shortly. “He wanted me to go on ignorant, like a fool.”

Gaby kisses his knuckles again. “I don’t know what he wanted,” she says. “I doubt he knows what he wanted. Just talk to him. He will explain.”

Illya thinks about Napoleon, lips gaped in a smile in the dark of the night, head thrown back and fingernails leaving marks in Illya’s shoulders, and then he thinks about Napoleon face-down on a cream hotel carpet, blood pooling under him, still as the night, still as the grave. This is no time to panic, no time to lose his head. There are things still to be done. Illya takes a breath, takes another, then says, “This isn’t over yet.”

Gaby peers at him. “What?”

“Mann,” Illya says. “Napoleon hit him, but none of the shots were fatal. He ran, but he won’t be far. He’ll be back. He won’t stop until he’s taken revenge.” 

Gaby shakes her head. “Not going to happen,” she says firmly. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“It is not up to you,” Illya says, and it’s harsher than he intended. “This is a public hospital, with dozens of entrances and exits and hundreds of strangers wandering unchecked. It is a very easy place to infiltrate, and Mann will take advantage of that.” There’s tension thrumming through his shoulders, through his arms, and it’s all he can do to not crush Gaby’s fingers between his own. “You were with him, too,” Illya says, as calm as he can manage. “You saw. He is not mad, he is not irrational. He is angry, yes, he is angry, but he is in control. Even when he had three bullet wounds in his body, he did not panic, did not lose control. He left to regroup, but he will be back. He has unfinished business with us, with _Napoleon._ He will not leave us alone until we are dead, or he is.” 

Gaby’s lips are set. “I’ll contact Waverly,” she says tightly. “Brief him on the situation, and get him to put agents all around the hospital. Every entrance will be covered. Mann will not get inside, and when he tries, he will be caught, and then I will put a bullet between his eyes.” 

Illya feels his lips curl in a snarl. “Don’t,” he says. “A shot to the stomach will kill him just as well, but will be much slower. He deserves to suffer. He deserves to _hurt_.” 

Gaby’s gaze is sharp and bright and angry, and she doesn’t disagree.

The next few hours pass in a slow, slow crawl. Illya can do nothing but lie there and flex every muscle as and when he gets control back, and so he does, feeling sensation return to his shoulders, his thighs, his hips, and finally, _finally_ , his stomach and chest. When he manages to pull himself upright and swing his legs over the side of the bed, in full control even if he can still feel the lingering effects of the sedative numbing his responses, his reactions, Gaby comes padding back into his room, arm still in its still, gun now strapped to her hip. She gives him a grim smile, says, “The hospital is surrounded. Waverly is on his way up from London; he will be here in an hour or so.”

“Any sign of Mann?” Illya asks, and opens his hand, clenches it into a fist. 

“No,” Gaby answers. “All agents are supplied with photos, and they are all unobtrusive, well hidden. We will catch him.”

“I know,” Illya answers, and suddenly he’s tired, so very tired. Last night seems like a long time ago. “What about Cowboy?”

Darkness flickers through Gaby’s eyes. “They’ve just finished up the surgery,” she says, voice carefully controlled, carefully uttered. “If you’re ready, we can go see him. He won’t be awake for a long while, but we can see him, at least.” 

“So he’s okay?” Illya asks. “He’s alive?”

Gaby’s lips curve in a soft smile. “He’s alive,” she confirms. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Walking is still a little tricky—Illya’s fairly sure that the soles of his feet are the last parts of him to regain sensation—but he manages, one hand heavy on Gaby’s slim shoulder. They move slowly through the corridors, and for once the odd looks they get aren’t due to Illya’s height, no, they’re more to do with the gun at Gaby’s hip. She should probably hide that, but Illya’s not about to point it out. She was kidnapped, after all, and even after years in the business it’s not exactly a pleasant thing to happen. 

Gaby’s stride is calm and steady. 

Napoleon’s room is in the depths of the hospital, windowless and small, with an easily-defensible entranceway and two guards already standing side-by-side at the door. Illya recognises them both: Gelsthorpe and Macintyre, both ex-SAS and ex-MI6, both highly-qualified and highly-dangerous. Gelsthorpe nods to him, hands him a spare handgun without needing to be asked. Macintyre acknowledges him with only a flick of his eyes. They let him and Gaby past without a word. 

Illya’s grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could speak right now if he tried.

Napoleon is pale against the paler sheets, dark hair a blazon on the pillow. His face is unlined, his shoulders unhunched, and the only indication that he’s anything other than a little anaemic are the IV lines running from his elbows to the drips hanging above the bed. The blankets are pulled up high around his chest, tucked in neatly and carefully by the gentle hands of the hospital’s nurses, but that doesn’t stop Illya’s gaze from straying to his chest, to the bulge of bandage and padding that’s just showing under the blanket over his heart. 

At his side, Gaby lets out a soft breath and goes to take Napoleon’s hand. 

Neither of them moves from that room for a long while. 

Waverly appears fifty-six minutes later, lips downturned, forehead furrowed in a frown. Illya stands instinctively, Napoleon’s limp hand still caught in his, says, “Sir.”

Waverly waves at him, says, “Relax, Kuryakin. Sit down.” 

Illya does. Napoleon’s skin is warm and smooth, and he focuses on that, on that touch, that warmth, not on the thought of a rogue CIA agent with a grudge. 

“The hospital is secure,” Gaby says, tiredness starting to flick through her voice. “Gelsthorpe is coordinating everything, reporting in to me.”

Waverly’s soft smile is almost fatherly. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I know. I’ve checked everything already, and added a few agents of my own as back up.” He pauses, and his lips thin. It’s as close to screaming anger as he ever gets. “I will be talking to the CIA director very soon,” he says. “There are safeguards in place against this kind of thing happening, safeguards which have not been followed in this instance.” 

“It’s done, now,” Gaby says, tired and heavy. “But thank you, sir.”

Illya doesn’t answer. Napoleon’s eyelashes are long and thick against his cheeks, soft in the harsh hospital lighting, and he just looks, keeps looking, because he’s here and he’s alive and he might not be awake yet but he will be. 

“Kuryakin,” Waverly says. “I assume that you have been brought up to date on the Mann situation?”

Illya looks away from Napoleon, says, “I have.” 

Waverly’s expression is closed and serious. “You’re taking all of this a lot better than I anticipated that you would.” 

Illya doesn’t think about Mann’s hand in Napoleon’s hair, hard and yanking. “I should not have been kept in the dark,” he says, as level as he can manage, “but now I know. It is how things should be. There is no point in anger.” And it’s true, of course it’s true, but that doesn’t mean that Illya’s heart has caught up. He sits at Napoleon’s bedside, shoulders smooth, hands unfurled, and he talks and talks and acts the part, but inside he’s boiling, frothing, spilling over because _ten years_. Ten years. He knows that Napoleon has secrets, that they _both_ have secrets, but this? This is suffering and abuse of power, and all that Illya can think is is that how Napoleon sees him? When he pushes Napoleon up against the wall when the bullet only just missed his head, when he can’t let go after he’s just got him back from the men who took him, who hurt him, does he see Mann? 

Waverly’s looking at him still, but it’s Gaby’s eyes that are keen. 

“I would tell you both to go and get some rest,” Waverly says after a moment, hands tucked neatly in his pockets, “but I assume that that would be pointless.” He pauses, looks down at Napoleon, and a frown crosses his forehead. “I have rooms at the Waldorf, so if you need me, that’s where I’ll be. Keep me updated on his condition.”

Gaby nods, says, “Of course.” Illya doesn’t answer. 

Waverly goes. Neither Gaby nor Illya move.

Day slides into night, and Napoleon doesn’t move, just lies there and breathes. 

In the morning, Gaby lifts herself out of her chair, stretches, cracks her back. She runs her hands through her hair, tugs her jumper down over the gun harness on her hip, says, “I’ll go get coffee and breakfast. Any requests?” 

Illya leans back from where he’s spent the night dozing with his head pillowed next to Napoleon’s hand, stretches his shoulders, his back. “No,” he says, and blinks sleep out of his eyes. “No, anything is fine.” 

Gaby nods. “Won’t be long,” she says. 

And Illya’s left alone with Napoleon. 

They haven’t been alone in the same room together since Napoleon was lying facedown on the Balmoral’s cream carpet, bleeding out. 

Illya lets out a long breath, driven partially by tiredness, partially by fear. He stands, paces around the cramped hospital room a couple of times before returning inexorably to his uncomfortable plastic chair, sitting down and rubbing his hands across his face. He’s stiff and sore, his wrists are chafed and scabbed from the rub of Mann’s cuffs, but that’s nothing, that’s _nothing_. He wants to break things. Of course he wants to break things because that tends to be his default method of coping but he knows full well that that’s really not going to help right now, so he just sits, head heavy in his hands, and tries not to think about the man he has given so much of himself to at the mercy of some bastard with power and a gun. 

Mann used him to get to Napoleon. He used them all, and it makes Illya sick that he fell for it. 

A hand alights on his bowed head, fingers trembling, and a hoarse, crackling voice says, “Chin up, Peril. I’m not dead yet.” 

Illya’s not sure when he got to his feet but suddenly he is, leaning forward over Napoleon’s bed, one hand braced against the pillow, the other touching Napoleon’s cheek, his shoulder, his hair, his lips. “ _Cowboy_ ,” he manages, and then: “Do _not_ get shot again.” 

Napoleon’s blue eyes are hemmed in by ooze gummed into his eyelashes, but he still smiles up at Illya, teeth bright and lips pale. “Wasn’t my intention to get shot,” he says, still hoarse, still cracked. “Had to save you, though.” 

Illya’s lips thin. “After what I said,” he says, “I would not be surprised if you didn’t.” 

Napoleon shakes his head, and the hand that ruffled Illya’s hair comes to land on Illya’s shoulder, weaker than it should be but still there, still solid, still warm. “We got played,” he says. “It can happen to anyone.” Something flickers in his eyes, painful and hurting. “Mann’s good,” he says, quieter. “He’s always been good.” 

Mann’s hand in Napoleon’s hair, knuckles white, fist clenched. Illya feels his heart stutter.

Napoleon’s eyes go dark, and his hand falls from Illya’s shoulder. “Gaby told you,” he says, soft and halting. “About Mann. About _me_.”

Illya freezes, because all he can think about is the _poison_ that spewed from his lips. _Sometimes you have to give as well as take_ – but here there was no giving, only taking, only Mann taking from Napoleon something that should never be _taken_ from anyone. Abuse, assault. Rape, but that’s not something that Illya can express, no, he has no words for it because he expresses himself through violence and gunfire, not words and flowers. This is so far out of his comfort zone it’s almost laughable—

Out in the corridor, someone shouts. 

Illya’s head comes snapping round, and Napoleon’s not so out of it that he doesn’t do the same. Yes, they’re in a hospital so shouts and alarms aren’t exactly uncommon, but they both know the different between a shout of pain and a shout of _fear_. It’s all in the silence that comes after, and right now, the ward is _silent_. 

“Illya?” Napoleon breathes. “What’s happening?”

Illya looks back at Napoleon, just for a moment, at the dark hair and the darker bruises under his eyes. He’s beautiful, he’s _always_ beautiful, and Illya let him down, let them all down. His heart is full and aching in his chest, and he lifts his gun from its holster, presses it into Napoleon’s hands, says, “Mann got away.” He goes for the knife strapped to his thigh, weighs it in his hand. “Stay down.” 

Napoleon just nods, doesn’t answer. There’s a pallor to his cheeks that Illya doesn’t like, sunken hollows shaded around his eyes, but his fingers don’t tremble around the grip of the gun. He’s only just woken up from major surgery and there’s heartbreak in his eyes, but he’s ready to stand, ready to fight.

Illya doesn’t think he’s ever loved him more in his life.

The knife is light in his hand, crafted from carbonfibre and lightweight scored handlegrip, and Illya holds it ready as he opens the hospital door, leaves it ajar and pads out into the corridor. Everything is bright and white, floors clean, strip lighting steady overhead, but neither Gelsthorpe nor Macintyre is in position. That tightens Illya’s grip on his knife, and he peers both ways, sees nothing, no sign of where they went.

Wait, that’s not quite right. Not _no_ sign, because there’s a smear of blood just outside a doorway approximately ten metres up the hallway to his left. It looks from here like someone’s tried to scuff it away with a shoe but hasn’t been quick enough, and now it’s stretched out across the linoleum, a crimson blazon pointing straight at where Mann must be hiding, presumably with Macintyre and Gelsthorpe’s bodies piled up behind him. 

Illya takes a soft step towards the doorway, but even as his body is moving his mind is whispering, _No_. That’s what Napoleon said— _Mann’s good, he’s always been good_ —so why would he make such a rookie mistake? Why would he let the blood fall and then not immediately hide it? There’s only one explanation: it’s because—

Cold gunmetal comes to rest against the nape of Illya’s neck. “Drop the knife,” Mann’s American drawl says. “Kick it away.” Illya grits his teeth. Played. He does as he’s told because he doesn’t figure he’s got a choice, watches the knife skitter away and forces himself to relax, to think. Mann’s planned this, planned everything, and he says, “Good boy, Peril. Now, turn around, okay? Keep it slow. I don’t want to kill you where Solo can’t see, but I will if you try anything. Understand?” 

_Where Solo can’t see_. He wants Napoleon to watch. 

“I understand,” Illya says, and does a slow one-eighty. “He’s still unconscious,” he says, loud enough that it’ll carry through the cracked door but not loud enough that Mann will suspect anything. “The doctors did their best with the surgery, but they are not sure that he will make it.” Don’t play it up too much. Don’t make it seem like Napoleon’s dying, because he looks bad but not _that_ bad. “This hospital is full of U.N.C.L.E. agents,” Illya says, keeping his voice level, calm. “You will not escape if you hurt him, but if you leave, there is a possibility that he might die anyway. You would get your revenge, and you would be free.” 

Mann’s lip curls. “I got in here without tipping off any of your U.N.C.L.E. colleagues,” he says. “What makes you think I don’t have an exit strategy that’s just as foolproof?” He snorts, shakes his head, holds Illya’s gaze. “No, your precious U.N.C.L.E. is good, Kuryakin, but it’s not _that_ good. Before my untimely firing, I was the CIA’s best. Twenty years in the field, and more than enough influence to keep your partner under my thumb and in my bed for a decade. You really think you can win this?” 

Illya doesn’t answer. He can feel the rage building in his heart, in his gut.

“Open the door,” Mann says, all business. “If this place is booby trapped, you’re the one that’s getting caught in it.”

“No booby traps,” Illya answers, and pushes the door open. “The plan was not for you to get this far.” Praise him, boost his clearly huge ego. Illya peers through at Napoleon’s bed the moment before he steps inside, and his heart thuds with relief to see that Napoleon’s taken the hint. He’s flat on his back again, sheets and blankets pulled to pristine neatness, eyes closed and forehead unlined. The gun’s nowhere to be seen, but Napoleon’s hands are hidden under the blankets, out of sight. Illya forces himself to take a breath, take another. 

Behind him, Mann tuts. “They couldn’t put him somewhere nicer?” he asks. “This is a _box_ , not a room. Let me guess. Meant to protect him from me?” He laughs, short and sharp. “That went well, didn’t it?” He gestures with the barrel of the gun, says, “At the foot of the bed, Kuryakin. Not letting either of you two out of my sight.” 

Illya does as he’s told, and even as he does so he knows why. He’s directly between Mann and Napoleon, straight in Napoleon’s line of fire, and he’s well aware that Napoleon’s not about to shoot him to get to Mann, not at all. Illya knows that because he wouldn’t, either. He takes a breath, grips the foot of the bed so hard it hurts, then says, “What now? Are you going to shoot me?”

“No,” Mann says easily. “No, we’re going to wait until Sleeping Beauty there wakes up, because contrary to what you seem to think, _Peril_ —” Illya almost flinches at the scorn in the nickname. “—I do my research. Dear Napoleon _isn’t_ on the verge of dying, no, he’s just sleeping off some surgery to get out of the bullet I put in him. Pity they won’t take out the bullets _he_ put in _me_ , but hey, I’ve never trusted the Scots.” 

Now that Illya’s looking, Mann’s holding the gun in his wrong hand and there’s blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt, Illya’s guessing from a wound that was scabbing over but has now been torn open. He can’t say he’s exactly sorry. “So your grand plan,” Illya says, loading his voice with as much sarcasm as he can manage, “is to _wait_.”

“The docs say it won’t be long,” Mann answers breezily. “I trust their judgement. I mean, the one that told me had a scalpel in her side, so I’m pretty sure she wasn’t lying. We’ll wait, and I’ll kill anyone who comes through that door and tries to stop me. And when Napoleon _does_ open those pretty blue eyes, he’ll be weak as a kitten, won’t be able to do a damn thing to stop me executing _you_.” There’s a light in Mann’s eyes, now, fiery and hot, and he says, “Come on then, Peril. On your knees.” 

“I will die standing,” Illya grits out. 

No warning, no preparation, Mann shoots him in the calf. His silencer’s on so the only sound is a quiet, muted pop. 

Illya grunts, swears in Russian, grabs the bed for support but it’s not enough, not enough – and he goes to his knees. He grabs at his calf, feels the blood pulsing against his hand, and fury slams through his heart. He’s tired so he’s making mistakes, making potentially fatal mistakes, and now he’s unarmed, on his knees, and there’s a bullet hole in his leg. He can tell from Mann’s unerring aim and his own past experience that it’s just a flesh wound, no more damaging than any of the searing holes peppered through Mann’s own flesh, but that’s not the point. He’s wounded, unarmed. He’s lost the high ground. He’s out. 

Napoleon hasn’t moved. Napoleon’s kept his head, kept himself calm. He’s still in the game. 

“That’s more like it,” Mann says, smug satisfaction thick in his voice. “Now, Kuryakin, tell me, I’m honestly interested. You know now, know exactly what your partner—in all senses of the word, I might add—is willing to sacrifice to make his own life a little easier. His dignity, his honour – and I’m guessing those are things that are pretty damn important to an uptight Commie like yourself. And then, when he’s had enough of _my_ patronage and he’s found someone else to grease the wheels of his life, he’s moved on. Ruined my life, and moved on _to you_.” Mann pauses, and the barrel of his gun is grey and bright in his hand. “So, Peril,” Mann says. “Just how does that make you feel?”

The door crashes open. 

“ _Illya_ ,” Gaby barks, gun in hand, and that was a bad decision, a _bad decision_ , because Mann isn’t panicked, no, he’s turning, smooth as greased machinery, he’s turning, gun in hand, and he said he would kill anyone who walked through that door but _not Gaby_ —

A shot sounds bitter and sharp in the tiny room. 

Illya’s heart is pounding so loud in his ears he can’t hear a thing, and he watches, motionless, pinned to the spot, as Mann _falls_. There’s a hole between his eyes, small and neat and perfect, a slim line of blood sliding down his sharp nose, dripping from the end, and he slides to his knees, teeters for a moment, falls faceforward onto the linoleum. 

The wall behind him is sprayed bright, bright red. 

Napoleon is sitting up in his hospital bed, one hand pressed over the red stain seeping from the torn stitches above his heart, the other holding the gun steady, level, held out and smoking. His face is passive, emotionless, but as Illya looks he dissolves into pain, lancing and sharp, and he falls back against the pillows, lets the gun drop into his lap. He coughs, splutters blood from his lips, then groans and says, “I don’t think the docs are going to be best pleased with this.” 

Illya doesn’t move. Illya doesn’t think he can.

“ _Napoleon!_ ” Gaby calls, and she’s at his side in a second, hand pressed to his shoulder, keeping him down against the pillows. “God, Napoleon, are you okay?” 

Napoleon wipes away the blood with the back of his hand. “I’m okay,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “Honestly, I’m okay. Help Illya, Mann got him in the leg.” 

“ _Illya,_ ” Gaby says, heavy and pained. She comes skidding to his side, and she’s helping him up, slinging his arm over her shoulders even though he’s so much taller than her. His leg spews red onto the ground, and Gaby’s shaking her head, her arm around his waist. “Bastard got in in an ambulance,” she says. “Pretended he was hurt, staggered out into the street. Locals called the ambulance, and the paramedics rushed him through. None of our people got a good look at his face, and by the time Jones realised something was wrong both the paramedics were dead, a doctor had a scalpel in her throat, and Mann was gone. I’m so sorry, Illya, I shouldn’t have left you.” 

“No,” Illya says, squeezes her shoulder. “No, it is okay, Gaby. It is not your fault.” – and there’s pain slicing through his leg now that he’s not numbed by shot, speaking to shattered muscles and a good long spell in a hospital, but that pain is nothing compared to the hurt that he knows is swirling under Napoleon’s passive exterior. Dignity, honour, and sacrifice, and they’re all things that are so important to Illya, of course they are, but there is nothing more important to him than his team. There is nothing more important to him than _Napoleon._

_Just how does that make you feel?_

Gaby’s trying to guide him to his chair. Illya pushes her away, limps to Napoleon’s bedside, and Mann’s a dead pile in the corner and his hands are covered in his own blood but he _doesn’t care_. He lunges forward, grabs Napoleon’s face between his hands and kisses him, kisses him in blood and death because that’s how they live and one day that may well be how they die, but not today. Today, they’re alive, they’re alive and they’re here and there is nothing that David Mann can do that will tear them apart. 

“I love you,” Illya says, sharp and overwrought. “I love you, and I do not care about him, about what he made you do. It does not matter. We do things to survive because we have to, but they do not matter now because we are alive and he is dead and I swear, he will never touch you again.” 

Napoleon doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, but there’s a lightness in his eyes. He reaches up, winds his hand through Illya’s hair and pulls him down, kisses him again, hard at first but then gentler, softer. His lips are dry and his mouth tastes like blood, but when Illya breaks away he smiles, licks his lips, says, “Love you too, Peril. And no, he won’t be touching anyone else ever, _ever_ again, and that’s because I sprayed his goddamn brains on the wall.” He bares his teeth in a grin that’s tired and stained with blood. “I only wish the bastard died slower.” 

Illya kisses him again, hard and tender all at once, and it’s a promise and a covenant and every word he could never say. 

Unnoticed by them both, Gaby smiles a smile that’s wider than the sky.

_finis_


End file.
